‘I still fancy you, Sorcha. You’ve actually held onto your looks in a big-time way’
ASK HONOR if she fancies watching Despicable Me with me on, like, DVD? She looks me up and down, roysh, with pure hatred in her eyes and goes, “Have you ever wondered what your life might have been like had you been given enough oxygen at birth?” It’d be fair to say that my daughter hasn’t taken the news of the cancellation of this movie she was supposed to star in very well at all.
She went literally ballistic when Sorcha and I told her that the studio had canned Mom, They Said They’d Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes.
She called us both a lot of names, most of which couldn’t be repeated in a magazine like this. Now she hasn’t eaten for, like, 48 hours.
And while that’s far from unusual for girls in this part of the world, I think it’s fair to say that Sorcha and I are both pretty worried about her. Thus the whole Despicable Me thing.
I’m standing at the door of her bedroom, going, “The physical appearance of the please makes no difference!” just basically throwing her a line from the movie.
She looks at me and goes, “Er, lame much?” and then, when I carry on doing it, she’s there, “Hashtag, you’re how old again?” Eventually, I just give up, then tip downstairs. Sorcha’s waiting for me in the living room with a big – okay, this is a made-up word – but expectant face on her? I’m there, “No interest. She pretty much told me what I could do with my Steve Carell impression as well. Do you remember she used to be a massive, massive fan of it?”
“What are we going to do, Ross?”
“We could just watch it ourselves.”
“I’m talking about Honor!” she goes, then she sits down on the sofa and just, like, shakes her head. “She’s getting actually worse? As in, like, her behaviour? I’m wondering should we possibly send her somewhere?”
“As in, like, boarding school?”
“Boarding school? She’s six years old, Ross.”
“Well, it’d mean we wouldn’t have to deal with her moods anymore. It’d be someone else’s problem.”
She stares at me pretty much open-mouthed for about five seconds, then she goes, “I’m actually talking about a child psychiatrist, Ross.”
Suddenly, it’s my jaw on the floor. “A child psychiatrist? That sounds heavy, Babes.”
“Well, it is heavy. Do you know what she called me the other day?”
“A sad sack of shit?”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Sorry, that’s just what she calls me sometimes. Go on, what did she call you?”
“She called me a bad mother, Ross.”
“That’s bang out of order, Babes. And I mean bang.”
“This was in the middle of Wilde Green. I was like, Oh! My God!”
“Wilde Green? Jesus, I’d say you were.”
She takes a breath then, like she’s trying to pluck up the courage to say something. She’s like, “What if she’s right, Ross?” I’m there, “Right? What are you talking about?” I sit down beside her.
She’s there, “What if it was something we did – as, like, her parents? Did we possibly spoil her?”
“I don’t think you can think like that, Sorcha. She’s just a little asshole. I wasn’t much better myself as a kid, I have to admit.”
“Or was it possibly us breaking up?”
“Hey, don’t go blaming yourself for that one, Babes.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I’m not going to go pointing the finger, saying you were wrong to fock me out of the house and tell me you wanted a divorce.”
“You had sex with our daughter’s nanny in our actual bed.”
“And that’s why I’m saying you were probably in the right.”
“It would have been far more damaging for Honor to grow up in a home filled with lies and deceit, Ross.”
“Possibly. Who’s to say?”
“But I do still wonder – has the absence of a strong male role model from her home life while she was growing up damaged her? Is that why she’s acting out?”
It’s a hord question to answer. I screw my face up like I’m actually thinking really hord about it, then I go, “Look, I actually still fancy you, Sorcha. You’ve actually held onto your looks in a big-time way and I’m saying that as a compliment to you. If you wanted to call off the divorce, get back together, blah, blah, blah – Jesus, I’d be in there like swimwear.”
She doesn’t say anything straight away. For about 10 seconds, I don’t know whether she’s going to, like, kiss me or slap me.
“What would have changed?” she suddenly goes.
I’m like, “As in?”
“If we did get back together, Ross – what would have changed?”
“Well, me for storters. I’d totally change. Seriously. If I thought there was even a sniff of a chance.”
“But I don’t want you to change, Ross. And I don’t think you’re capable of it anyway.”
I’m like, “So what are we talking about here – an open relationship?” because if that’s what she’s suggesting, she’s pushing an open door.
“No, I am not talking about an open relationship,” she goes.
“Okay, don’t fly off the handle, Babes. I’m just trying to establish the ground rules here.”
“The ground rules are our marriage vows!” she practically roars at me. I’m there, “Good point – yeah.” I’m pretty sure there’s a copy of our wedding Mass booklet in one of the kitchen drawers.
“All I’m asking from you,” she goes, “is loyalty and honesty.” I’m there, “That would not be a problem,” even though I realise that monogamy is probably also covered in that as well.
There’s, like, silence then, and there’s suddenly a real “Okay, how do we take it to the next level?” vibe. I decide to take the initiative. I go to throw the lips on her. Except she puts her hand on my chest and she’s like, “What are you doing?” I’m there, “Er, kissing you?”
“No,” she goes, “if we’re going to do this thing, then you’re going to need to prove that you can stay faithful to me.” I’m like, “Okay, go on,” with a sudden feeling of dread growing inside me.
“I’m talking about a probationary period,” she goes. “Six months. If you can resist the temptation to sleep with anyone else in that time, then we’ll go back to doing . . . that.”